Eleanor H. Porter

“ Stanley Kent had always been “good” to his Uncle Richard, according to the verdict of numerous relatives who acknowledged the patience of the one and the querulousness of the other; but during the next week Stanley's goodness developed and increased to near a state of perfection, if to be “good”? were to make visits that were lengthy and frequent.
Even though Stanley's eyes were directed across the street, what mattered it? His ears were attentive to long tales of rheumatism. And even though Stanley's thoughts were all of a girl, a boy, and a small dog, again what mattered it? ”

“ After a time Kent and Robert were admitted for fifteen-minute visits which were gradually increased to those of an hour. Sometimes there'd be a letter from Denver to read, a letter which necessitated a speedy return of thanks for the bank check that never failed to come. Sometimes a rare rose or a fragrant pink found its way into Dorothy's fingers. Always there was something; and to Dorothy these visits came to be the happiest hours of the day. ”

“ It is not large, but with careful managing Robert and I do very nicely. I even lay by a little some months, for the proverbial rainy day; but, as for anything beyond that, surely you see how impossible it is!”
“But isn't there somebody, something, some relative?”
“Not a soul.”
“Some uncle, or cousin, or great-grandfather with a superflous amount of money that he doesn't know how to spend?” persisted Kent.
The girl shook her head, but the small boy, who was near, laughed aloud.
“Oh, Dot,” he chuckled, “Mr. Kent means Uncle Jed—I know he means Uncle Jed out in Denver.” ”

“ Kent, you—you didn't ask him to do it?”
“I? Of course not! I never saw him at all,” declared the man, hotly. Again he wondered if he caught the flippant wink of a left eyelid from the direction of the small grinning boy.
The treatment began at once, the blind girl going to the doctor's private hospital. The day before she went, however, she asked Robert to write a letter for her to Denver. In sheer desperation the boy made a flimsy excuse and fled to his colleague for aid. Kent responded at once and walked into the back parlor where Miss Holbrook sat waiting. ”

“ It was wonderful to see how quickly her slim, swift-moving fingers would comprehend the size and shape of something new to them, and how hungrily her ears would drink in any stray bit of information regarding it, provided, always, that she had to ask no questions herself ”

“ The boy hurried on and Kent looked after him.
A well shaped, well-poised head, a pair of square-cut shoulders, and an air of alert independence made the little fellow wonderfully attractive. The boy stopped at the third settee and threw his arms around the blind girl's neck.
“Well, by Jove!” ejaculated Kent, turning, and crossing the street. ”

“ Stanley Kent was an artist, and by the end of the week he had decided to paint the girl, the boy, and the small dog. That he was a stranger to all three added only to his scheme. At the end of two weeks he knew that the girl's name was “Dorothy Holbrook,” the boy's name, “Robert Holbrook,” and the dog's name, “Watchout.” He also knew that all three boarded with the widow Carleton who had an extra room to rent on the second floor. The third week saw him well established in Mrs. ”